


Panacea

by tacroy



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-05
Updated: 2017-01-05
Packaged: 2018-09-14 23:55:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9210812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tacroy/pseuds/tacroy
Summary: She can hardly see him in the low, flashing light. It is a long way down the elevator, and she nudges her shoulder against his, trying to quiet his tremble. He leans into her, pressing his face to her neck, his nose tracing the line of her vein, lips prickling over her skin. His breath, soft, hitched, makes her hands stutter on the zipper of the pouch at her hip. She finds a syringe and reads the raised writing on the side with the tips of her fingers as his forehead falls to touch the point of her shoulder.Her hands are dripping with his blood.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this in one fucking hour. Listen: I am going to believe that they lived. 
> 
> Having said that, I chose not to warn for implied character death.

She can hardly see him in the low, flashing light. It is a long way down the elevator, and she nudges her shoulder against his, trying to quiet his tremble. He leans into her, pressing his face to her neck, his nose tracing the line of her vein, lips prickling over her skin. His breath, soft, hitched, makes her hands stutter on the zipper of the pouch at her hip. She finds a syringe and reads the raised writing on the side with the tips of her fingers as his forehead falls to touch the point of her shoulder. 

Her hands are dripping with his blood.

She shifts the torn cloth above his knee, gently, searching for skin, and when she finds it she splays out her fingers and inserts the needle between them. He gasps and noses instinctively at her neck, then turns away and exhales, hard, through his mouth and nose, and she glimpses his mouth, in profile, slack in shock, gleaming in the low gloss.

“Painkiller,” she says in his ear. “Cassian, please,” she says, “stay,” leaning into him now, stroking his jaw, trying not to imagine the blood she is leaving there, his blood, returned like a gruesome gift. She turns his face back to her with gentle fingers and presses their foreheads together. His breath is still a stutter and her heart must be doing the same, it must be; it must be flashing like the lights. She cannot imagine that her own light is not flickering, now, through the hollow cavity of her chest, that her heart is not visibly on fire, that it is not burning for them both.

He tilts his head by the degree; his nose bumps hers. She bites her lip; closes her hand over the side of his neck to feel the pulse there, ragged, straining, vital. He shifts his leg, the bad one, for better purchase, and barely flinches; the sedative is fast-acting. She is something like relieved. What else is to be done? They’ve transmitted the plans. Avenged her father. Sated his pain. There is no time for rescue, and there is such simplicity in that, such decisive finality.

She studies, for a year-long second, his eyes, unfocused, blown; his brows; the line of his nose; the wanting curve of his lips. This last she makes a theory of, and leans in to test it. She traces the fluttering outline of his lips with her lips, then, gently, with her tongue; he meets her, then, with an open mouth, and they swell into each other, drowning and drinking, and her theory unfolds before her as her hands twist into his hair, and he cups her cheek, ridiculously gentle. 

They are lost like this. Her fire becomes a distant, now, subsumed by and joined with other fires; they are an inferno. Given eternity she could not recall her simple theory, not now, not after she has been so devoured. Has death come, and have they been consumed into each other? A noise comes from her throat, and his hand strays down her neck, between her breasts, to splay across her stomach. She fists his hair with one hand and traces down him with the other, the same way he did, still kissing him, still tasting him, still conjoined.

“Jyn,” he says against her lips, as if to simply test how the name emerges from him now, what it means when he says it like this, like it is the answer to all things. “Jyn,” he says again, into her mouth, like a spell, like a handprint. 

“Cassian,” she says, just once, a translation from common letters to atoms, to elements, to basic and fundamental doctrines; to chemical formulas that she weaves into her bones. 

He curves his hand around her hip and presses his thumb into the indent of her pelvic bone and she bites his lip, and laughs, a small hiccup, and he shakes his head a little in hilarity as her hand finds the skin under his shift, the pliant muscle at his side. She sees the absurdity of this distantly, through a lens of fond, fatalistic amusement. The fire is hazy, now, down to smoldering coals, and she applies her theory to his lips again as he undoes her trousers and presses his fingers downward.

Most times it is a little uncomfortable; most times there is that long moment when she is too present to really feel. But her consciousness is ash, now, and when his fingers first slide, gently forked, down the outside of her labia, she goes into the spiderweb of her neurons and perches there, five senses combined into one, searing. He brushes, purposeful, across her opening, then flits up, to the valley above her clit where its nerve bundle emerges timidly. He rests there, caresses there, brushes and strokes there, just above her clit, just close enough to it for her to fist his hair for the millionth time, to grit her teeth, to bite his lip again. Her other hand clutches his upper thigh, vengeful but unsteady. He circles, taunting, a few mores times, until the fire flares and she shifts her hand to cover his cock with it. 

He inhales, knife-sharp, fingers slipping, as she flexes her own fingers finely, barely moving them, hinting at the outline of his cock through his trousers. He tries to take up a rhythm on her again but she is running one side of her palm down his length, then the other, and his lips form an O against hers, and she fucks her tongue into his mouth as she grasps him, and noises like cries come from him, sounds as if she may as well be stroking his wound. She unlaces his trousers, fumbling his cock into her palm, and just as she is about to wrap her thumb and first finger around its base, he glides two knuckles alongside her clit. 

Wood on the embers ignites into flame. He paints with one finger, kneads her clit like a bead with two, circles her entrance with his thumb, and she is enkindled, stroking him, rounding his head and his base with the web of her thumb, the delicious curve of her third finger climbing his length at the vein. He dips his thumb inside of her and she tries to flex, but he is gone, and she will char if this keeps up, because he is back again and gone as fast, fingers clever and so fast as to be innumerable, kissing her clit four at a time, surrounding, and she encircles him, pads of fingers thin across the head of his cock, swiping precome for a pale substitute of lubricant, working the flats of her fingers against the hot thickness of him, up and down and up and around, and oh, and oh, he is inside of her, his pointer, thumb pressing her clit like an ignition switch, that first finger painting a line in the sand around the muscle ring of her entrance, and she chatters her fingers down his cock, opening and closing, closing harder and harder, and one finger is two in her, three, thumb crowning, hard, insistent, three fingers seeking the place in her, curving up into her, four fingers, incandescent, and she orbits him now like a moon, her fingers the tide, gravity her wrist, his seas boiling, and he crooks four fingers into the sublime of her, and there is the heart of the fire, the radiance of it, and they are the stars at its molten core.

They are a remedy together, for their ills. They are panting and laughing and she touches her fingers to his lips, and he strokes her jaw, and if they are the fire, the fire cannot hurt them; they can join with the fire, and fires only grow.


End file.
